


stories we could have told

by impulserun



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: M/M, Miscommunication, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 21:06:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5600920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impulserun/pseuds/impulserun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is pining, a distinct lack of communication, and something sparks to life on a ship bound for Australia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vibraniumstark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vibraniumstark/gifts).



> Shout-out to [iamslytherlocked](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iamslytherlocked/pseuds/iamslytherlocked) and [stackingelephants](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stackingelephants/pseuds/stackingelephants) for helping me through some rough patches and putting up with my incoherent shrieking and wailing when I failed at words.

Tharkay knows from the moment Laurence offers him his hand that he is well and truly fucked. He takes one look into his eyes, blue and earnest and _shining,_ and he _knows_.

“I think I would be sorrier to lose you than I yet know,” he says, hand still outstretched, and he marvels at this, at the look of utter composure on his face, when he has all but turned Tharkay’s world on its head. When – all his life – all he has known has been one long parade of downturned eyes and faces turned away, and now – this.

Tharkay realizes belatedly that he has been staring – at the set of his shoulders, the gentle slope of his nose, the curling strands of blond hair falling to frame his face – and forces himself to smile.

“Well, I am set in my ways,” he says, “but as you are willing to take my word, Captain, I suppose I would be churlish to refuse to offer it.”

Laurence’s hand is warm and firm in his. Tharkay is so very fucked.

*

It is certainly something, to be trusted again. Upon their return, Tharkay is folded almost seamlessly into their ranks. The aviators rally around him almost to a man – even Temeraire, it seems, counts him as one of his own. It is… odd. Not unwelcome, but odd all the same.

He holds that feeling close even when he ventures back to the Pamirs, first to coax Arkady and his band away from their mountain home, and then to find the British Corps as many more dragons as he can.

Up in the thin mountain air with the cold biting at his face, it is easier to breathe – easier to _think_ , away from the heady, intoxicating warmth that is William Laurence. Things hadn’t been like this with Sara; they had loved each other most ardently, that much was true, but Sara had been like a drink of cool water and the promise of shelter after a long trek through the Taklamakan. Laurence is flame and fire and warmth; more like fine wine than water, strong and sweet and every bit as addictive.

Tharkay rubs a hand over his face and turns back to the mountains before him.

*

The Laurence he meets on the ship to Australia is a good deal closer to the Laurence he is used to, if slightly more distant than he expected. Which is a relief; Tharkay doesn’t think he could ever grow used to the man he had met in the English countryside, his heart turned cold and quiet. He remembers the sight of tears running down his face, and the aching desire he had felt to reach out and wipe them away.

This Laurence is quiet and pensive still, but at least he is smiling again.

What with Iskierka and Granby’s arrival and several conflicts between the prisoners held on board, it is almost three weeks before he next speaks with Laurence. When he does, the man is pale and gaunt, with dark circles beneath his eyes.

“Laurence,” he says, “have you been eating or sleeping? At all?”

“ _Ha_ ,” says Granby, hiding his smug countenance in his cup.

“I find that sleep is intent on evading me, these days,” the blond says, offering a wan smile. Presently, he yawns and reaches up to rub at his eyes. He looks, quite frankly, a mess; for William Laurence, that is serious indeed.

“I hope you haven’t been to see Temeraire this morning,” Tharkay comments, taking the seat by Granby. “I can only imagine what his reaction will be.”

“Oh, he has,” Granby pipes up, all too gleefully. “He all but pitched a fit; perhaps Laurence will listen to us now, and catch a proper rest for once. It cannot be comfortable on the dragondeck, especially with Iskierka there.”

“It is comfortable enough,” says Laurence, stifling a yawn.

*

He does not see Laurence again until later that evening, when the other man is stumbling back from the dragondeck. His eyes take in the rumpled, dishevelled state of Laurence’s clothing, the damp from the sea spray seeping into his shirt and breeches.

“The clouds were too low for Temeraire’s liking this evening,” he offers by way of explanation. “He will not have me sleeping on the dragondeck tonight; he fears that a storm might wash me overboard.”

Laurence yawns, his eyes drifting shut for a fraction of a second; it is only Tharkay’s quick reflexes and the nearby railings that save him from losing his footing.

“If you do not get a proper rest soon,” he says drily, “then a storm will be the least of Temeraire’s concerns, to be sure. Can you even stand?”

“It is of no concern,” he insists. The man is swaying slightly on his feet now, in a manner that has nothing to do with the waves rocking the boat.

“Laurence,” he all but pleads, “ _Will_. If you continue on in this manner, you are likely to kill yourself.”

“What will you have me do, when sleep does not come easily?”  

Laurence’s skin is warm even through the fabric of his clothes, warm enough to burn

“What you need,” he says lowly, holding his gaze, “is a distraction.”

Straightening up, he continues, “Captain Riley has been so kind as to give me my own chambers on board. They are comfortable enough – perhaps, from time to time, you could join me. It would be a welcome respite,” he adds meaningfully, “from what you are needlessly putting yourself through.”

Laurence moves automatically to defend first the state of his quarters by the gaol, and then the dragondeck, before, finally, conceding defeat. Tharkay feels as if he should have a calendar on hand to mark the occasion.

“In any case, I could not intrude on you in such a manner,” he says hastily, clearing his throat. “Especially not when –”

Abruptly, he turns away, face shuttering as he does so.

“The offer still stands,” Tharkay presses, bewildered. Then, thinking to lighten the mood, he jests, “Surely you would not think to deprive me of your company?”

Laurence is silent for the longest time.

For a while, there is nothing but the gentle lapping of the waves and the smell of brine in the air.  Then, at last, in a voice barely above a whisper, Laurence speaks. “I did not think you would still want it.”

There are many things, then, that flash through his thoughts. With all the time they have spent in close quarters, he finds himself slowly growing accustomed to Laurence and his manner of hiding everything he truly means behind proper decorum and stilted speech. It is his father’s old diplomacy lessons all over again, or something very much like, prying words from their meanings and putting them together again; Laurence says everything, and nothing at all, and in that moment, Tharkay wants to give him everything, to lay himself bare at his feet.

“I could never hate you,” he says instead. “Once, I would have despised everything that you stood for – but not _you_ , Laurence, never _you_.”

But that is not enough to express the depth of his feelings, it seems, for Laurence simply smiles at him, weak but grateful. It is a welcome sight nevertheless; Tharkay can barely remember the last time Laurence’s smile reached his eyes.

“Laurence,” Tharkay says, holding out his hand, “will you come with me?”

*

After that first night, it is easy – all too easy, in fact – to draw Laurence away from their companions. On the days when not even Temeraire’s presence or Granby’s quick wit can ease the tension in his shoulders, all Tharkay has to do is lay a hand on his shoulder and nod meaningfully in the direction of the stairs. Most days, a simple game of cards will suffice; sometimes, what Laurence needs is the quiet of the cabin to wrestle his thoughts away. On the others…

Laurence snuffles slightly in his sleep, shifting to press his nose into the crook of Tharkay’s neck. Tharkay allows himself a smile as he reaches up to tuck away a loose lock of blond hair. They have hours yet before the bell for dinner will sound; he can afford to let Laurence doze for a while. He can afford to let himself enjoy this.

Tharkay will never tell, but he lives for those other days.


	2. Chapter 2

It is rare that one should find Laurence away from Temeraire, but the state of the _Allegiance’s_ stores are frankly appalling, and it would not do to have a known traitor to the crown walking around freely on board while the ship is docked at harbour. Or, at least, that is what Laurence believes. So it is ultimately Tharkay who winds up standing by Temeraire with one hand resting on his warm flank, while Laurence festers away in his room by the gaol below and Granby struggles to stop his wayward dragon from purchasing yet more gaudy trinkets for her captain.

“I do not see why Laurence cannot stay with me,” Temeraire grumbles as he curls sulkily in on himself. “It is not as if anyone will recognise him, anyway – and the gaol smells rancid,” he adds as an afterthought, snorting slightly. “Surely it cannot be good for his health.”

“I find that when it comes to matters like these, it is best to simply humour him,” Tharkay advises. “There is little point in getting worked up about something you cannot change.”

“Oh, alright,” Temeraire huffs, settling his head on his forearms. “I suppose you would know. Still,” he adds, almost reprovingly, “I do not understand why he cannot just stay in _your_ cabin, instead, when he has been spending so much of his time there already. You _are_ very fond of Laurence, are you not?”

“Pardon?” says Tharkay faintly, clutching at the railing for support.

“Why, anyone can see it – or smell it, if they care to put their tongues out,” he continues happily, and whatever lingering hope Tharkay may have had of keeping his infatuation a secret withers away. “Only, Laurence can be very slow about these things, you know, even though he is so very smart at others, like battle tactics; I do not believe he has noticed at all.”

“There are many reasons why one would feign ignorance about such matters, but in this case I believe you are right.” He heaves a sigh of relief, feeling some of the tension escape his body.

Temeraire blinks in his direction several times, before lifting his head and squinting at him as he puts back his ruff. “Pardon, but I do not understand. Tharkay, do you not care for Laurence a great deal?”

Tharkay stares at him, belatedly cursing whichever god or deity had manoeuvred him into this position.

“You do not always need to care for the other party, or even to love them, to lie with them. Certainly, it may help, but no, love is not always a factor, or people would not frequent the whorehouses so.”

“But you _do_ care for Laurence,” Temeraire presses. “Would you not prefer that Laurence felt the same?”

“I hold your captain in very high regard,” he says at last. “Our current arrangement suits me well enough; I need ask for nothing more. But Temeraire, you must not tell anybody. Do you understand? No one can know."

Temeraire’s giant head droops slightly. “Not even Laurence?”

Tharkay nods, turning to cast his gaze out upon the glittering water. “Not even Laurence.”

*

Australia is beautiful, hauntingly so. The red sands of her outback, the lush greenery that dots the landscape, the vivid splashes of blue betwixt drifting white clouds – all of it is beautiful, but Tharkay finds that he is more inclined to remember watching months of pent-up tension slowly dissipate and disappear from Laurence’s posture. That is what he will associate with the place; not the dangerous wildlife lurking out of sight, or the frankly terrifying bunyip attacks, but Laurence, relaxed and open and smiling. It is a sight he deeply cherishes, and one he finds he will miss.

The thought of asking him to leave, to come away with him, has crossed his mind more than once. To call Laurence away from stable ground, to live freely and go where the wind takes them, and to inflict such a life on Temeraire too – it is a selfish thought, to be sure, but one he cannot seem to dismiss.

He raises the possibility to Laurence once, after countless nights perfecting his argument and practicing an unaffected air. He speaks of practical interests, of the divine wind as an asset, of the very small likelihood that the British Government would deny him this request. He does not speak of his own aching desire to hold him close, to see his smile and hear his laughter. Can Laurence hear his heart pounding in his chest?

Laurence looks thoughtful, but remains undecided. Tharkay does not dare to hope. He has learnt that much, at least, from Sara.

*

He spends his second-last night in Australia closeted in an inn, whiling away the hours dining with Laurence. Some of that old haunted expression has returned to his face, to his gaze; the man is barely able to focus on their post-meal card game. At last, frustrated, Tharkay folds his cards, putting them face-down and pushing them aside.

“Will,” he says, “Come to bed.”

Laurence all but melts into his touch, his hands warm and firm where they rest against his hips. His hair falls into Tharkay’s face when he leans forward to capture his lips, but Tharkay doesn’t mind at all. Laurence’s kisses are slow, and sweet, and he cradles Tharkay close like something to be treasured; it’s something he could get used to, and something he will miss, now that his departure is upon him.

“Tenzing,” Laurence murmurs, soft and sweet, before sharply pulling him forward. Their bodies flush together, Laurence turns his attention to cupping Tharkay’s face and pulling him in for another kiss. Heat floods through his body and coils in the pit of his stomach, and he finds himself balling his fists in the front of Laurence’s shirt as the taller man presses his advantage.

It is Laurence who takes charge of the kiss, makes it heady and hot and trembling, but it is Tharkay who works them backwards to the bed, who pushes Laurence down and all but climbs into his lap. Laurence bites off a moan when Tharkay grinds downwards, his head tipping back and exposing the pale skin of his neck; Tharkay barely resists the urge to bite down hard and mark him, contenting himself with a flurry of light butterfly kisses.

Laurence moans again, his eyes fluttering closed. “Tenzing,” he breathes, “ _Tenzing_ –”

Outside their window, there is a sudden volley of gunshots.

“What was that?”

“Ignore it,” he mumbles, nibbling at an earlobe. Laurence whimpers and is quite willing to agree, hands sneaking up to push his shirt out of the way –

Another report sounds.

They still abruptly, listening with bated breath as gunfire and shouted commands alike issue forth from the streets below.

Tharkay does not believe this. No one in all the world could possibly have such excellent timing.

“It must be the Corps,” Laurence mutters unsteadily. He buries his face in Tharkay’s neck for a fraction of a second, then Tharkay suddenly finds himself deposited on the mattress.

“You could stay,” Tharkay suggests, his voice rough.

“No, I must go –” Laurence looks down at the state of his clothes, and tries feebly to make himself decent. “If it is truly a mutiny, Temeraire will grow anxious waiting for my return, and I hardly wish to imagine what Rankin might do if I do not stop him in time.”

“You might at least wait for the fighting to die down,” Tharkay points out. “It will do no one any good if you were to get yourself shot in the back trying to return.”

“I promise I will be careful, Tenzing.” The grin that flashes across his face is almost roguish; certainly not one he had thought Laurence likely to possess. Then he is standing at the door, one hand on the knob when, hesitating, he turns and asks, “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Yes,” he answers, for how can he say anything but? “Yes, you will.”

*

The sun dawns on a Sydney newly free. Tharkay looks out over the harbour and the ships docked in port, watches the sun paint the sky in hues of orange and salmon pink.

It is almost time for him to leave.

He thinks, briefly, of Laurence, of his wish to see him happily and safely away, and stands.

If nothing else, he must still try.

*

The trek to the promontory is neither longer nor more arduous than usual, but his entire being feels bogged down. It is like walking through syrup, or something very much like; but the ache cuts him right to the bone.

 Tharkay manages to pull himself together by the time Temeraire’s bulk comes into sight.

He breaks the news of his departure to the company assorted there, and entertains Temeraire’s request to speak with Iskierka’s parents. The Celestial has grown surprisingly attached to him, all things considered; being more than passably familiar with the outcome of Harcourt and Riley’s dalliance, he had expected to be met with something more hostile.   

“I think we must expect to regret you a longer time,” Laurence says. “There can be very little to call you back to this part of the world anytime soon.”

Little? He wonders for the umpteenth time if his opinion of himself can truly be so; how can it be, even after all these months, that Laurence continues to labour under the impression that –

Tharkay falters, his heart suddenly cold.

William Laurence is many things, but he is no fool.

“We spoke some time ago,” he starts again, uncertain, “of endeavours which might call _you_ away from it, however. I would have opportunities to make inquiries, if you have decided.”

Laurence does not answer immediately. Tharkay watches his face for each pain-staking second, wishing, hoping against all hope –

“No; thank you, Tenzing,” – and oh, oh, how it _hurts_ – “I cannot see my way to it. I am very grateful –”

“Then,” he says, “I will hope some other occupation finds you; you do not seem likely to me to lie idle.”

He does not know what he says next. Tharkay stumbles his way through his goodbyes, leaves his lawyers’ address behind to maintain a simulacrum of normalcy. He doubts that Laurence will write to him; no one ever has, or ever will. He hardly remembers what he says to Temeraire, but he feels the dragon’s eyes on his back all the way down the hill.

There is no sense in the heavy, crushing disappointment that now settles upon him, absolutely no sense at all. They had not traded promises, no; Tharkay did not have anything to base his disappointment on, nothing that was solid or tangibly real, not even whispered vows exchanged in the darkest of rooms. There is no sense in feeling this way, and yet – and yet.

Behind them, Australia grows further and further away, until it is little more than a speck on the horizon.

Tharkay does not look back.


	3. Chapter 3

“You wished to see me, Admiral?”

Tharkay can almost swear that this has happened before. The drawn look to Jane’s face, the faint traces of crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, even the light from the setting sun filtering through the window. It brings to mind memories of a Britain under siege, of a harbour thrown into chaos, of –

Well.

Those had, ironically, been simpler times.

“Lily’s formation will be making land in China from Brazil,” she says at last, turning away from the window. When Tharkay raises an eyebrow, she adds, “Laurence has been summoned there by the royal family.”

It is by no means the first time Laurence has been mentioned to him, and certainly it will not be the last, but Tharkay’s chest constricts all the same.

“We need someone to carry this intelligence to them,” Jane continues, gesturing grimly at the maps and assorted documents piled on the table. “Will you go? It would take a transport eight months by sea; there is no one who knows the overland route like you do, and no one less likely to be noticed.”

“I have little choice in the matter, it seems.” he remarks drily. “Will I be taking Arkady?”

“Ideally, that is. He works best with you, and is the fastest of the dragons we can afford to spare at the moment. But what with the recent commotion, and Wringe brooding her next egg, who’s to say –”

 “There are ways he can be convinced to fly,” Tharkay says, thinking of a flight undertaken over two continents not that long ago. It will be easy enough to pander to his ego, to highlight the importance of his role in this intelligence mission. Arkady is in many ways a simple dragon.

“I have never been quite so far as Peking itself, I must say,” he adds thoughtfully. “Even my work for the East India Company mostly takes me from Xian to Guangzhou. But I will do what I can.”

*

The days and nights blur together, with no real source of natural light to guide him. He has to mark the time nothing but the flickering lamplight and the sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor; the latter he grows to dread.

On days like these, when the pain jolting through his hands is too much bear, Tharkay relents and loses himself to memory. To Laurence’s firm arms and gentle fingers, to Laurence bracing himself above him as their hips slot together, Laurence’s breath stuttering against his bare skin, his voice gasping his name, _Tenzing, Tenzing, Tenzing_ –

“Tenzing.”

Tharkay’s eyes flutter open.

“Will?”

*

His days post-rescue seem almost a dream. One minute he is laying miserably on a cot in his prison, the next Laurence is bundling him into his arms, supporting him while he stumbles and sweeping him off his feet when his legs give way. He muddles his way through a report two months too late, and sinks gratefully into unconsciousness when the physicians leave. He remembers very little after that. What he can recall comes to him in slips and snatches; Temeraire’s voice and a whispered reply, the court physicians and their rapid-fire Chinese, the faint smell of cooking food wafting in from the courtyards - once, he even thinks he wakes up to Laurence stroking his hair, and Temeraire’s massive silhouette barely visible through the fabric of the tent, but he chalks that down to another fever-dream.

It is a long while before he is strong enough to walk again. He revels in this tiny victory, in the freedom that comes with being deemed healthy enough to be given his own tent – and being allowed to go to Russia, should he take care not to agitate his hands.

Tharkay takes to long, meandering strolls about palace grounds, to test the limits of his physical abilities. Distances that once would not have fazed him are daunting to him now, but one must persevere. On one of these walks, he is just rounding a corner of the palace when someone behind him calls his name.

Turning with dread pooling in his chest, Tharkay catches sight of Laurence breaking into a jog.

“Tenzing,” he breathes, coming to a stop beside him. “Are you well?”

“I am much recovered, to say the least. There is no need to worry about me.”

“Good! That is – good.” Laurence’s smile is surprisingly warm. It reminds him of days gone by, of salt sea air, of touches stolen in the dead of the night; it hurts. “Will you be coming with us to Russia, then?”

“Of course,” Tharkay replies, raising an eyebrow. “It seems to me that whenever I leave you alone for too long, I come back to find you bereft of one thing or the other. What with John’s hand and the loss of your memory, you can hardly blame me for wanting to stay nearby.”

“So spake the pot,” Laurence mutters, his eyes flicking briefly to his still-splinted hands. In response, Tharkay stares pointedly at the mishmash of bandages wrapped around his head.

Faced with this impasse, the man simply smiles.

“I cannot say I am not glad to have you by my side once again,” he comments, “but I do wish we had enough time to allow you a proper recovery. Are you quite sure you would not like to stay behind?”

He shakes his head. “There will be time enough for me to recuperate while we travel.”

Their walk has brought them round to the inner courtyard adjoining Temeraire’s private chambers. It is cooler here, and quiet; Temeraire has never been one for solitude.

“Speaking of recoveries, Will, how fares your health?”

“All is well; these bandages are due to come off in a day or two. Though, my memory – that of it which has come back to me, in any case – is still fuzzy; I doubt that it will ever fully return,” he says with a rueful smile. Then, almost hesitantly, he adds, “Tenzing, I must ask you – when you saw me last – did I ever – have I ever made you any promises?”

“You need not worry,” he replies, and if he is barely able to keep the bitterness out of his voice, well. “There have been no promises made between us – and I do not expect any.”

“Tenzing…” Laurence trails off, his voice soft, and – oh, _oh_ , he _knows_ , he must know, or he would not speak so – Tharkay cannot bring himself to look at him. He casts his gaze out to the cold stone courtyard instead, to steel himself for the rejection he knows must come.

“Tenzing,” says Laurence again, “if you should permit it, I would like to exchange promises with you.”   

He stares at Laurence in what is first shock, then slows gives way to pain and fire and _anger_ bubbling over in his chest. How dare he. How _dare_ he.

“I do not need your pity, Laurence,” he snarls, turning to storm away, and he would ball his hands into fists if it did not hurt him so.

Laurence simply reaches out and catches hold of his arm to fix him in place.

“It is not my _pity_ I am offering you. Tenzing, I – I understand if your feelings have changed, or if you never held such feelings for me in the first place, but – I have come far too close to losing all that I hold dear than I would have ever –” Presently Laurence seems suddenly to deflate. He closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath. “Forgive me, Tenzing; I had thought – I had presumed –”

“I asked you to come away with me,” he interrupts. Laurence stills; his eyes widen. “You _declined_. You turned me down, and you pushed me away.”

“The privateering? Tenzing, I did not know – I –” Presently Laurence lets out a bark of laughter, bright and sharp. “I am afraid I have been a terrible fool.”

Laurence steps closer, and it is foolish for someone who has seen him naked and done much more besides, but Tharkay forgets to breathe.

“May I start over?” he asks, gently, and there is something foreign and passionate burning in his eyes. Perhaps – Just maybe –

Tharkay nods, not trusting himself to speak.

“Tenzing,” he breathes. A soft smile curves over his face, quiet and slow. “I love you. It took me an embarrassingly long time to reach this conclusion, I’m afraid, and when I did I was convinced that you could never feel the same. Temeraire disabused me of the notion most violently.”

“Will, have you no sense at all? First you claim that I hate you, and now you – what did you think – I’ll have you know, William Laurence, that I would never lie with anyone I didn’t have some modicum of affection for.”

“I do know that now, and I would be quite embarrassed to tell you what I thought to be true.”

The hand resting on Tharkay’s arm creeps up to cup his cheek; he leans ever so lightly into Laurence’s callused palm, reaching up to cover it with his own.

“I do love you, Will,” he tells him, quietly. “I have loved you for quite some time now.”

“I am glad to know that, Tenzing,” Laurence whispers, leaning in.


End file.
